


own your heart and soul, my lover

by silverfoxflower



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Competence Kink, F/M, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: Geralt responded to her scream immediately, turning on his heel and driving his sword through the wolf’s skull, pinning it to the ground with a grunt as its jaws twitched against Jaskier’s ankle.Their eyes met - the blood dripping off of Geralt’s hair, framing his pitch-black eyes, the veins running to his temples, his skin deathly pale, his lips drawn back in a dark snarl.Jaskier felt her heart stop. And her quim slicken.It took a long time to convince Geralt that, nay, she was not disgusted with him, and even longer until he would agree to fuck her in that state.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 168





	own your heart and soul, my lover

There are many things Jaskier loves about Geralt.

She loves it when he’s soft for her and she loves it when he’s hard for her. She loves his gruffness in the early morning, his secret, wry humor, the way he patiently listens to her play the same stanza again and again because she needs to get it _right_.

She especially loves Geralt when he’s black-eyed and dangerous, blood in his teeth and adrenaline in his veins making his prick hard enough to break rocks. Oh, how she enjoys him then.

The first time she saw him like that, they had encountered a pack of slavering wolves, made mad by some Witch’s magic. Geralt had quickly sucked down a potion, shoving Jaskier behind him as he braced himself to slice through the howling beasts. His sword strokes had splashed the both of them with with gore. Jaskier had been terrified and enthralled in equal measures by the whirl of Geralt’s body, his trained movements stuttering as a wolf sank its fangs into his forearm, making him howl with anger, flinging the wolf into a nearby tree with enough force to make a sickening, crunching sound.

Then a wolf had rushed towards Jaskier.

Geralt responded to her scream immediately, turning on his heel and driving his sword through the wolf’s skull, pinning it to the ground with a grunt as its jaws twitched against Jaskier’s ankle.

Their eyes met - the blood dripping off of Geralt’s hair, framing his pitch-black eyes, the veins running to his temples, his skin deathly pale, his lips drawn back in a dark snarl.

Jaskier felt her heart stop. And her quim slicken.

It took a long time to convince Geralt that, nay, she was not disgusted with him, and even longer until he would agree to fuck her in that state.

But, well, that’s what Jaskier loves the most about Geralt. How unyielding he is to everything _but_ her. With Jaskier’s considerable charms and persuasions, Geralt eventually admits that, yes, it would be beneficial to them both for him to be relieved of frustration after his hunts. And is she not a sturdy girl fond of rough play? And does she not adore every part of him, even the savage, dark parts?

This last bit she includs to see Geralt stutter and make humming noises, as she finds him quite adorable when embarrassed.

Now, finally, she is able to reap the fruits of her labor.

They hunt for harpies on the coast of an Isle of Skellige, a small village with a thin, rocky beach. Hardly a romantic trip to the coast, but Jaskier is happy enough to follow Geralt, less happy when he indicates that they are to climb the nearby cliffs.

She’s hugging her lute to her chest, trying not to look over the ledge at the dizzying fall below when it all goes wrong.

The shriek of the harpy is the worst part of a woman’s scream and a bird’s cry. They swoop on Geralt and Jaskier with razor-sharp talons.

Geralt mutters a curse as he leaps to a wider ledge, pulling Jaskier after him roughly, slinging her to a crevice in the rock as he unsheathes his sword. With the cliff face at his back, Geralt is protected from unseen attacks, but the fight quickly grows tiresome. The harpies are quick, and clever. They attack in pairs, one drawing Geralt’s feint while another attacks his flank. Though he does not say it, Jaskier knows that she’s a liability. Were he to push them back with a sign he would risk flinging her off of the ledge as well.

“We should draw back!” Jaskier calls, then sees that the harpies have already thought of that, cutting off their path of escape by swarming near the narrow ledges. The only way out is up.

Geralt downs his second, and last, potion, his muscles twitching from the effort. Jaskier feels a spike of worry until she remembers the townswomen complaining about their missing jewelry, the harpies bold enough to snatch the baubles from their hair.

“What are you doing?” Geralt yells as Jaskier dives for their bags. His voice comes out twisted and snarled, an effect of the potions.

“Just wait,” Jaskier mutters, tossing everything out of the bag (a stray apple rolls off the ledge, followed by a vial of something hopefully unimportant) and rooting around until she finds a small silver hand-mirror, a practical present from an ex-lover long-forgotten.

Just in time. A harpy is descending upon Geralt’s shoulder as he wrestles with another, her talons ready to rip into his flesh. Jaskier uses the mirror to direct the sun into the harpy’s eyes. Dazzled, it falters, and that is all the time Geralt needs to slice her throat with such force that she falls to two pieces on the ground below. With less distraction, Geralt is able to fend off the harpy attacking him, injuring her grievously before she flaps away.

“No need to thank me,” Jaskier calls smugly as Geralt turns to face her way. Her next words are punched out of her when something sharp sinks painfully into her back, and a hot, sickly stench wafts over her shoulder. Jaskier yelps, struggling as the harpy drags her towards the ledge, the toes of her boots lifting off the ground as she kicks, the pebbles bouncing ominously into the void.

She can’t help but look down now.

Then there is a loud scream, and a hot splatter of blood down the back of her neck. Jaskier feels herself pulled back to safety, crushed against Geralt’s warm, hard chest. “Oh thank gods,” she groans, but there was no time to rest as Geralt pushes her back to the crevice and sprints away, drawing the harpies’ attention as he scrabbles his way to the top of the cliff.

It is over soon after that. With their nest destroyed, the harpies scatter, their wailing cries making Jaskier feel a bit sick, after all. She gathers the mess she had scattered, mind filled with lyrics to best highlight her heroics of the day as she makes her way back down the the beach.

Geralt comes upon her as she is bathing in the ocean, the cold salt water making her nipples tighten and her skin pucker into goose-pimples. The sting on her back is not fun, but luckily the scratches seem to be superficial. She grins when she sees him, inclining her head. It is all the invitation he needs to wretch off his bloodied armor and wade to her, his eyes black and focused on only her, his prick bobbing, hard and thick, between his legs.

Jaskier feels a perverse glee allowing him to come arms-length before she dives away, enjoying the feeling of cold water sluicing around her body. She has always been a strong swimmer, having grown up with a lake on her land. It is perhaps the only physical arena she can hope to compete with Geralt.

Not seriously, of course.

Geralt’s hand closes around her ankle like a band of iron and she sputters as he drags her close, folding her against his hard body.

“Why didn’t you wait?” he asks as she loops her arms around his shoulders.

“Worried I would leave?” Jaskier asks blithely, before she sees the flicker of fear across Geralt’s face. Even when he is hard like this - raging and roiling and smelling of fresh blood from the hunt - he is soft. She kisses him, tasting salt. “You are the thickest man I have ever met.” The water comes up to about mid-chest here, and it is easy to hook her legs over Geralt’s hips, wriggling her bottom teasingly above his straining cock. “Haven’t I professed enough the depth of my adoration for thee?”

Geralt growls, pulling her down to sheath him in a rough motion that makes Jaskier shudder.

“You almost died,” he rasps, which is not a response to anything she said, or perhaps it is. The depths of Geralt’s communication is difficult to parse when he is fucking the breath from her, sinking his teeth into her neck and squeezing his fingers against her hips hard enough to bruise.

Jaskier thinks she might have died when she comes, sliding quietly under the water and watching the white of the sun above pull apart above her. When she next comes to, she is bracing herself against a rock face, feeling the moss crumble under her palms as Geralt fucks her from behind. The burn from his thick cock feels so good from this angle. Jaskier arches her back, crying out as Geralt winds her wet hair around his fist, pulling it back and letting the salt water drip down her back. One of his rough hands palms her breast, rolling her nipple between his callused fingers as she reaches to fondle between her own legs, moaning his name as she begs for more.

They are exhausted by the time they crawl back to land, Jaskier flopping happily on the blankets she had set out earlier, enjoying the last of the sun’s rays upon her skin as night began to crawl over the sky. The potions are leeching from Geralt’s body, the veins retreating and his eyes almost back to their original color.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.

“ _This_ is why I returned early,” Jaskier says, shuffling to press her cheek against Geralt’s shoulder. He draws her under his arm wordlessly. “Would you like to roll around in the sand? No? You’re welcome.”

Geralt does not answer, but he does turn and press a kiss against her temple, then settles to sleep, snuffling against her salt-wet hair. Jaskier allows her eyelids to flutter shut, dreaming of the morning when Geralt would beg to lick her quim, in apology for using her so sorely this night. Of course she would acquiesce, despite her assurances that she did so enjoy being sorely used. Alas, the man may never believe in the completeness of her fondness for him.

Luckily Jaskier is willing to convince him, as long as need be.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic)


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